Stress on the Job
by Blynneda
Summary: Sharona learns some bad news that threatens her job with Monk, just as Monk gets some bad news of his own. Totally updated! Chapter Three
1. Prologue

_If you've read this before, I should point out that this version is drastically different from the original.  You'll recognize most of it, certainly, but I've made a lot of changes.  I'm an obsessive rewriter.  I originally wrote this as a one-shot vignette, but my early reviewers saw (or wanted to see) more to the story.  So I had to go back and recreate the atmosphere._

_Enjoy the story!  And please review!_         

**STRESS ON THE JOB**

**Prologue**

            Another night, another year sucked out of her life.  At least, that's the way Sharona felt after a particularly aggravating day with Adrian Monk.

            He was a brilliant man, that Monk.  The smartest person Sharona had ever met.  She felt honored to be accepted as his trusted assistant.  What qualities did she possess, she wondered, that allowed her to peek inside that amazing mind?  She couldn't figure it out.

            But there was a price to pay.  Her time, for one.  He ate up hours of her day, just as the cleaning compulsions ate up his.  Whenever she hoped to spend a normal evening out, Monk would call with some ridiculously over-dramatized problem that she had to, personally, fix.  Monk wouldn't accept any substitutes.

            God, she wasn't even sure she knew what normal _was_ anymore.

            It was like some kind of reverse of the "knight in shining armor" story.  Except Monk was the disturbed in distress, battling off his personal demons.  And Monk never quite expressed his appreciation for her help as clearly as Sharona felt she deserved.  He had this love-hate relationship with her—just like the one he had with himself.  There was a polarity in his personality.  At his worst, he couldn't disguise or hold back his most pathetic actions.  But after Sharona's assistance grounded him, he was too proud to thank her for pulling him through again.  He had to keep his dignity somehow, whatever remained of it.  Sharona understood the shame and disgust he felt after one of his episodes, so she rarely brought the issue up.

            That was the burden she had to carry alone.

            After all, he was a sick man.  And she was a nurse.  That was what she did:  took care of people's psychological, physical, and emotional needs.

            So who was going to take care of hers?

            It was exhausting, coming home after one of Monk's bad days.  No, it was exhausting just after an average day.  The bad days, well, those were the ones that left her about as empty as the gas tank in her car; as empty as her checking account.

            Her sanity was the other price she paid.  She couldn't mention that to Monk, of course.  With his germ phobia, he'd likely think he had somehow spread his disease.

            But hadn't he, in some way?  After all, what kind of life would Sharona lead if she'd never met Adrian Monk?  A lot less stressful, that's for sure.

            But . . . also, a lot less satisfying.

            And that was what kept bringing her back.

            _It's a gift. . .and a curse_.  That's what Monk always said.  He was right.

            She didn't get home until almost nine that night.  Monk had spent the afternoon cleaning—_her_ house, inexplicably—and refused to leave until the place was spotless.  She tried to run errands in the meantime, but Monk was too restless.  He'd been that way all week:  distracted, secretive, excessively nervous.

            Sharona figured it must have something to do with the appointment.  Monk was doing what he did best, worrying on her behalf.  She was convinced that he was more concerned than she was.  It was just a check-up, she'd told him.

            "That's what's bad about check-ups.  You always think there's nothing wrong with you, until you actually go and find out what that pain means," Monk had said with authority.

            "Yeah, I know what that pain means," she'd answered dryly, shooting him a pointed look.

            _That _certainly made her feel better about her appointment.

            "Mom?" Benjy said meekly, startling Sharona from her reverie.  She blinked several times, trying to focus on her son.  Her eyes weren't cooperating.  He was wearing pajamas and holding a sheet of paper.  It was late, probably past his bedtime; she didn't even know.

            "What is it, hon?" she asked tiredly.

            "Um, I've got a thing from school you're supposed to fill out.  I need it by tomorrow."

            "Great.  How long have you had it?"

            Benjy shrugged.  "I dunno.  A couple days."

            Sharona bit back an angry response because, of course, it wasn't his fault.  She'd barely had a moment to herself for the past few days, let alone for him.  She felt like a horrible mother.

            Now, Monk, on the other hand, he was getting the best parental care available.  For all the good it did him.  He was more anxious than a teenage shoplifter locked in an interrogation room with Captain Stottlemeyer.  Sharona didn't know what his problem was, but she hoped he'd get over it fast.  It wasn't helping matters.

            "All right," she sighed.  "Leave it out for me to take a look at in the morning."

            Benjy grinned.  "Thanks, Mom!  G'night!"

            "I love you!" Sharona said, then got ready for bed herself.  _If only it could be a good night_, she thought.  Just as she was sinking into bed, as if on cue, the phone rang.

            "What do you want, Monk?" Sharona answered.

            "How did you know it was me?" came the surprised response.

            "You're not the only detective around.  What's wrong now?" she asked with resignation.

            "W-when do you plan on getting up tomorrow?"

            Sharona hesitated, confused.  "God, I don't know!  What difference does it make?  I'm telling you, I'm not coming over there, I don't care _what_ your problem is!"

            "Uh-huh," Monk replied, apparently oblivious to her anger.  "And when do you plan on leaving?"

            Sharona prepared a biting response, decided it was easier in the long run to go along with him, and said, "Probably about 8:30."

            "Okay," Monk said.

            There was a short silence in which Sharona waited for Monk to explain himself.

            "Adrian?" she finally asked.

            Monk answered by changing the subject.  "Do you know how to make tea?  I mean, the way _you_ make it."

            Sharona shook her head to herself.  "Stick a bag in hot water," she sneered.

            Monk was unfazed by her sarcasm.  "Okay, thanks.  Um, have a good night.  I'll see you tomorrow, then?"

            "As long as I don't die at the doctor's office," she answered dryly and hung up over Monk's protesting.

            Once again, here was Monk acting strangely—even for him.  He was calm when he spoke to her, so it was obvious he wasn't having one of his panic attacks.  And yet, he sounded uneasy.  Distracted.  She shrugged it off.  He always sounded distracted.

            Sharona swallowed uncomfortably, holding a hand to her chest.  There it was again.  That tickle of pain, just to the left of her sternum.  She didn't want to think about what it meant.

            Oh, well, that's why she was going to the doctor, right?

            She sighed, brushed a hand through her hair.  Took a deep breath, popped a couple Tylenols into her mouth, and turned out the light.

            But, despite her exhaustion, she didn't fall asleep for a long time.


	2. One: Bad Tidings

**Chapter One:  Bad Tidings**

Anita Craven flicked a strand of blonde hair out of her eyes and straightened the shoulder strap of her purse.  The bell chimed, the elevator doors opened, and she stepped out onto her level of the parking garage.  The dim halogen lamps cast disturbing pools of light across the lot, making the shadows seem darker and more sinister.  Anita clenched her keys tightly in her hand, thumb lightly touching the panic button.

            At least she could find her car—it was the only one in sight, a light blue, late-model Camry.  _Fifty feet away, in a brightly-lit, empty parking garage, she told herself.  __Not deserted_.  Empty._  _No need to panic.__

            Deadlines.  She hated them.  She especially hated when she missed them, even if it was with good reason.

She'd pulled very few all-nighters in her career, so it was surprising to see how abandoned the place looked at four in the morning.  Newspaper buildings were always bustling with activity, of course, but apparently not the parking level reserved for reporters.

            She didn't like to think of herself as one of those ambitious, driven, do-whatever-it-takes-regardless-of-who-you-hurt journalists.  She wasn't.  But this story was a career maker.  If she broke it open right, not only would she be Pulitzer material, she'd be making a lot of people's lives better.

            And that's why she got into this game, anyway.

            Her footsteps echoed hollowly as she crossed the empty parking garage.  She imagined that somewhere nearby, other footsteps were following her, in that way that threatening footsteps stop when you stop and start up again when you do.

            Anita refused to stop.

            _Why am I so nervous? she wondered.  __I've been lost in this gritty underworld too long, I guess._

            Anita unlocked her car door and slipped inside, but not before carefully checking the backseat for lurking murderers.  As usual, the backseat contained nothing more than a few folders of notes.  She set her briefcase on the passenger seat, quickly pulling the door shut behind her and locking the doors.

            Anita paused, staring at the wall in front of the car.  There was a poster advertising a movie that had come out several weeks before and a sign indicating the level and section of the parking garage.

            B5.  Now, why did that combination click in her head?

            Anita rubbed her eyes and sighed.  It sounded familiar because she'd been staring at nothing _but letters and numbers for hours straight.  B5 was probably the page in the __Chronicle her story would show up on in Friday's edition._

            Conspiracy theories.  If you read too much into everything around you, of course you'll start coming up with some crazy ideas.

            "Right now, all I want to do is _sleep_," Anita said aloud.

            She stabbed the key into the ignition and turned.

            The pre-dawn explosion could be heard for two square blocks.

*   *   *

            Somehow, regardless of the circumstances, Sharona couldn't help thinking about Adrian Monk.  It wasn't that surprising, considering this man had been the central focus of her life for the past five years.  But it did occasionally annoy her.  Okay, more than occasionally.  Sometimes, it drove her nuts that, even when she managed to escape him physically for a short period of time, she still felt his presence.  

            Case in point:  here she was, sitting on an uncomfortable exam table, in a gown that wouldn't stay closed in the back, waiting for her doctor to return with her test results from what she decided must be a spur-of-the-moment vacation to Bolivia.  Her clothing, inexplicably, had been left in the exam room she'd started out in, before all the tests.  If she'd kept her watch on, she could have known that she'd been left waiting in the room nearly half an hour.

            And she had not gone more than two minutes at a time without worrying about Monk.  Like it or not, she always had Monk on the mind.  Yes, rather than fret over her blood work or the discomfort she felt at being abandoned half-naked in a really _cold_ room, Sharona wondered whether Monk was ransacking his apartment in a nervous cleaning frenzy.

            Monk, of course, knew about this appointment, but Sharona couldn't bring herself to reveal the serious nature of her doctor's visit.  She'd awoken several times in the past month with a sharp pain in her chest, and finally resolved to check into it.  Thinking about how she'd manage to pay the bill without insurance worried her about as much as the pain itself, but she figured she had no choice.

            None of this was mentioned to Monk.  He agonized over the whole idea as it were; there was no need to make it worse on him.  Or on herself.  So she made light of the appointment.  Not that it still didn't throw the man into a fit.  He was probably still hyperventilating.

            Sharona was so busy thinking about Adrian Monk she hardly noticed her doctor's entrance.

            "I have your results," Dr. Singh said calmly.

            Sharona moved as if to take the folder from his hands, but he eased back out of her reach.  Sharona sat back.

            "So, what is it?" Sharona asked, concerned at his stony demeanor.

            "Your cholesterol is looking a bit high.  Combined with your blood pressure and family history, I'm a bit concerned about your heart."

            Sharona scowled.  "What do you mean?"

            Dr. Singh looked at her directly.  "You're a high risk for cardiovascular disease," he said.

            "Okay…"  Sharona paused, the significance of his statement escaping her for the moment.

            "The truth is, you almost certainly will have a problem with this somewhere down the line.  There's a possibility it will manifest itself in the near future," Dr. Singh continued.

            "What are you talking about?  What kind of problem?" Sharona asked, a part of her wondering whether she was over-reacting like Monk usually did.

            Dr. Singh pursed his lips, his unrelenting composure somehow making her reaction more violent.  "Well, the worst-case scenario, of course, is myocardial infarction—"

            "A _heart_ attack?  You've gotta be kidding me!"

            Dr. Singh hardly reacted to her outburst.  "It _is less common for someone your age, but not unheard of.  This is something that I've seen building up slowly over time.  Your blood pressure has increased since I last saw you—which, incidentally, was over three years ago."_

            Sharona didn't bother to explain the complications with Monk and the police department and who paid her salary.

            The doctor continued, "Now, you seem to be maintaining a reasonable diet, you're exercising, so I'm inclined to believe that this is due to increased stress…"

            Sharona sighed.  "I've been raising my son alone."

            Dr. Singh nodded.  "Okay.  How about work?"

            Sharona rolled her eyes theatrically.  "Don't get me started there!  My boss is . . . well, let's say he's worse than a second child."

            Dr. Singh scribbled something on his pad.  "Well, I can give you a prescription for your blood pressure.  But you'll have to make some lifestyle changes yourself."

            Sharona narrowed her eyes.  "What kind of changes?"

            "For one, you might consider your field of work.  It's obvious this job of yours is adversely affecting your health.  Perhaps if you changed your occupation, your stress level would decrease, as would the risk factor."

            Sharona lurched forward.  "What are you talking about?  You want me to just up and leave my job like that?  That's going to solve all my problems?"

            Dr. Singh was unaffected by her violent display.  "You admitted yourself it's a cause of great stress to you."

            "My boss _needs me!  I can't just dump him and get on with my life!  There's more to it than my personal well-being."_

            "Now, see, I think there's your problem—believing you're indispensable to another person.  That puts an incredible amount of pressure on someone."

            Sharona glared in irritation.  "So is being a mother."

            The doctor wasn't affected by her dirty look.  "You're going to have to consider whether you want what's best for you or your boss, then."

            "Why don't you ask me to stop being a parent?" Sharona retorted angrily.  "You can't just run around making judgments about what's best for everyone!"

            Dr. Singh raised his eyebrows.  "All I'm saying is you have to eliminate stress from your daily activities.  If the greatest amount of that stress comes from work, then that's the problem you need to address.  It's all up to you."

            Sharona squinted at her doctor.  She couldn't help but notice the lapel of his physician's jacket was folded over awkwardly.  She considered commenting on it, then blinked out of her reverie.  _What am I thinking?  Thanks a lot, Adrian._

            The doctor spoke again.  "Listen, this is all precautionary.  It's possible you'll never have a problem, but you have to keep this in mind and do what you can to prevent it."  He scrawled his signature on the prescription, tore it off the pad, and handed it to Sharona.  "Give me a call if you have any questions.  The receptionist will take care of your payment plan."

            Before Sharona could respond, Dr. Singh left the examination room.  Sharona stared at the door through which he'd just exited.  "But it's not that simple," she protested to herself.

*   *   *

            Sharona didn't know who to turn to, so she stopped by Dr. Kroger's office after her appointment.  He ushered her into his therapy room.

            "…So he basically told me I had to abandon Adrian," Sharona finished with a sigh.

            Dr. Kroger raised his eyebrows.  "Is it that serious?"

            "Apparently."

            Dr. Kroger lifted a hand to his chin thoughtfully.  "Now, I notice you used the word 'abandon.'  Why do you think you phrased it quite that way?"

            Sharona looked up, confused.  "What?"

            "Well, do you feel you'd be abandoning Adrian by leaving your job with him?"

            Now Sharona was annoyed.  "I don't know, what else would you call it?"

            "And how do you feel about that?"

            Sharona waved her hands helplessly, blinking back tears.  "Isn't that kinda obvious?  I'm _upset!"_

            Dr. Kroger didn't react to her emotional display.  "So what are you going to do?"

            "I don't know!  I have to tell him, right?"

            Dr. Kroger hesitated, his mouth open to speak.

            Sharona interrupted before he could say anything.  "I almost think it's a dream come true, you know?  I have an excuse to leave this—I don't have to go crazy dealing with money and Adrian and all these problems…"

            Now Dr. Kroger waited for her to finish.

            "But then I think of Adrian.  He'd be heartbroken.  I _know_ him.  He couldn't handle it.  And then what would happen to him?"

            "Well, I think he'd suffer a setback, certainly, but…"

            Sharona pressed the fingers of her left hand into her temple.  "He'd never get over it.  I can't do that to him!"

            Dr. Kroger nodded sympathetically.  "I notice you've been talking all about Adrian here.  What about _you, what do you think about this?"_

            "Well, it's horrible, of course!" she blurted with a wild gesture of the hand.

            Dr. Kroger raised an eyebrow.

            Sharona paused.  "I haven't really stopped to think about it, I guess.  What if something happens to me—what'll happen to Benjy?"

            "What'll happen to _you_?"

            Sharona stared at him.

            "So what do you think you should do?"

            Sharona shook her head resignedly.  "Maybe I should leave.  I can't do anything for him if I'm dead."  She took in a shaky breath and added quietly, "The thing is, I don't _want _to leave, you know?  What do you think?"

            Dr. Kroger scratched the back of his neck.  "I think…you should follow your instincts.  Do what you think is right."

            Sharona stared at the psychiatrist and sighed.  "No wonder Adrian says you're unhelpful."

            He quirked a smile.  "Okay, I know that's not exactly what you want to hear.  Now, I've known you for…"  He stopped to think a moment.  "Five years?  And I know Adrian.  Whatever you decide, just remember this:  he'll get through it.  You both will."

            Sharona couldn't help but mutter, "Yeah, right."

*   *   *

            When Sharona returned home, a surprise awaited her.

            "Oh my God!  What's all this?"  The living room of her apartment had been strewn—very neatly, for such material, so she knew Monk was behind it—with pink and purple crepe paper.  At the corners of the sofa, several balloons were taped together into perfectly symmetrical bunches.  A wrapped gift was centered perfectly on the coffee table.

            Monk came in from the kitchen with a wide grin.  Benjy bounded after him, brimming with excitement.

            "It's a party," Monk announced, unnecessarily.

            "We've been planning this for weeks, Mom!"

            Sharona looked down at her son.  "You have, huh?  Wow!"

            "It was Mr. Monk's idea," Benjy admitted.

            Sharona looked back up at Monk in wonder.  "Adrian?  What is this?  It's not my birthday."

            Monk shook his head.  "It's our anniversary."

            Sharona gaped at him.

            Monk blinked a few times and amended, "Five years ago today, you started working for me."

            Sharona looked around the room again.  "You did all this for me?"

            "He even got a cake from the bakery and everything!" Benjy piped in.  "Come out and see it!"

            Monk shrugged a little.  "I just…can't, you know, eat any myself."

            Still stunned, Sharona stood rooted in place just inside the door.

            "Sharona?"  Monk approached her.

            She brought a hand up to her collarbone and took a deep breath.  "I didn't—this is totally unexpected."  She couldn't prevent her voice from quavering.

            Monk gave her a goofy little boy smile that reminded her a bit of Benjy.  "I wanted to do something special.  I don't, uh, tell you often enough how much you mean to me."

            Sharona tried to swallow past the lump in her throat, but it wasn't working.  _I already made my decision . . ._

            "Sharona?  Why don't you come into the kitchen?" Monk gently took hold of her arm just above the elbow and led her around the couch, showing the same attentive concern that she so often displayed toward him.

            "I think she'd happy, Mr. Monk," Benjy said cheerfully, trotting ahead of them into the kitchen.

            Sharona stopped short.  "Adrian…there's something you should know…"

            Monk turned to her with horror written on his face.  "I picked the wrong colors for the balloons, didn't I?"  He grimaced and pressed his fingers into the bridge of his nose.  "Oh, God, I _knew you'd prefer blue and white, but I second-guessed myself!"_

            Sharona couldn't help but react in her usual, slightly annoyed manner.  "No, Adrian, it's not the damn balloons.  It's something else…"

            Monk stepped in front of her, probing her eyes with his.  "Is something wrong?  Did something happen at your doctor's appointment?" His eyes took on that desperate, worried look that almost always melted her heart.  His grip on her arm tightened as he searched her face.  "Sharona?"

            There was a pause.  Sharona looked past him into the kitchen.  It looked bright and cheery, the product of a party lovingly put together by Adrian and Benjy, the two most important men in her life.

            Sharona shifted her eyes back to Monk.  She shook her head slightly and forced out a chuckle.  "No.  Everything's fine, Adrian."

            Monk smiled a wide, genuine smile.  "Great!  I don't know what I'd do without you."

            Sharona followed Monk into the dining room.


	3. Two: Twinges

**Chapter Two:  Twinges**

            Monk watched Sharona's reaction carefully as she entered the dining room.  She'd only seen glimpses of his decorations from the foyer, so he was keenly interested in her response to the full effect.  He wondered if she'd noticed the way he'd rearranged the fruit bowl on the dinner table so her favorites were the easiest to grab.  Or the little dabs of frosting he'd wiped off the surface of the cake because they were asymmetrical.

            _Of course she wouldn't notice that, he told himself.  And if he pointed it out to her, it would annoy her and ruin the party.  He had to stop thinking about things like that.  Let her enjoy herself._

            Monk shook his head before a little voice in his head could say, _If you wanted her to enjoy herself, you wouldn't be here.  He pushed the voice away and spread his hands in a display of casualness to disguise his self-criticism.  "Happy anniversary!"_

            Sharona was busy examining the cake.  "I don't believe it!" she said with a tone approaching admiration.  "How did you guys plan all this without my knowing?"

            Something was wrong, Monk realized.  Sharona kept fingering the cross around her neck, and had been since she first arrived.  She didn't do that unless she was worried.

            Was there a problem with the party?  Did he overstep his bounds, planning it without permission?  He pushed the thought away.  No.  It had nothing to do with him.

He wasn't convinced.

            Benjy leaned against the door frame, apparently oblivious to Sharona's concealed anxiety.  He was trying to fight back a giant, goofy smile, and failing miserably at it.

            When Sharona turned back to face the boys, Monk blinked and forced a big smile.  "Whaddaya think?  Huh?"

            Sharona looked at the cake again.  "It's huge!"  She shook her head in disbelief as she looked from the cake to the three party hats set up in a perfect triangle on the counter.  "Where did you get it?"

            Monk waved the question off dismissively.  "Oh, we got it at a bakery downtown."

            Sharona looked to her son questioningly, waiting for further explanation.

            "We had to go to, like, six places before we found one that Mr. Monk liked!" Benjy piped in.

            Sharona raised her eyebrows.  "That's all?  I'm impressed."

            "And we brought it back in a taxi," Benjy continued.

            Sharona paused, her eyes flickering to Monk.  "_You took a taxi?"_

            Benjy shrugged.  "Yeah.  I was okay.  Mr. Monk was with me."

            Monk glanced down at Benjy.  "She means me."  He couldn't help but feel a twinge of annoyance whenever Sharona commented on his social difficulties.  As if he didn't realize he was abnormal.

            Sharona was waiting for an answer from him.  Monk shrugged and said, "It was fine, Sharona.  I've been in taxis before."  He hated it when she babied him.  She acted like he was younger than the kid.  He could ignore the stares and comments from strangers, most the time, but it always hurt most when Sharona was condescending to him.

            Sharona stared at Monk, then looked back to Benjy, who grinned.  "You mean, he didn't freak out or anything?" she asked in amazement.

            Benjy shook his head.

            Monk leaned against the counter with a self-satisfied smirk.

Sharona paused, then shook her head.  "Too bad you can't act that way around me," she muttered as she turned back to the cake.  "How much was this?"

            Monk didn't answer.  Why did she have to bring up money on a day like this?  Couldn't she _ever leave it alone?_

            "Benjy!" Sharona urged.

            Benjy hesitated, glancing nervously at Monk vigorously shaking his head behind Sharona's back.  "It was over twenty dollars!" he finally announced.

            Sharona's mouth dropped open, and she whirled around to glare at Monk.  "Twenty—?  If you're going to spend that much on the cake, does that mean I get a raise?"

            Monk's smile was frozen on his face.  He knew it.  She was just obsessed about money.  He cocked his head to one side.  "No."

            Sharona sighed.  "Well, I guess if it's here, we'd better eat it."

            Monk studied her quietly.  She had a distracted look on her face as her eyes unfocused.

            "All right!"  Benjy yanked open the silverware drawer and pulled out a knife.

            "Be careful with that!  Give it to me!"  Sharona rushed across the room and grabbed her son's wrist, wrenching the knife from his grip.  Benjy looked surprised and confused.  Then Sharona shifted her glare to Monk, who hadn't moved from his position by the counter.  "You're a big help."

            Monk widened his eyes innocently.  "Benjy," he said earnestly, "don't play with sharp objects."

            Benjy nodded.  "Okay, Mr. Monk."

            "Thanks."  Sharona rolled her eyes.  She held the knife over the surface of the cake experimentally, determining where to cut.

            "I want a big piece!" Benjy declared.

            "Benjy, you haven't even had lunch yet, have you?"

            Monk twitched one shoulder and straightened.  "He did, actually."

            Sharona hesitated, then relented.  "Okay.  What about you, Adrian?" she asked.

            Monk held up a hand and shook his head.  "Oh, no.  I don't want any."

            Sharona looked up from the cake.  "Why'd you get such a huge cake if you weren't planning on eating any?"

            "_I'll eat it!" Benjy said, pulling a few plates from the cupboard._

            Monk shrugged.  "I didn't want to get a small one."  She was so eager for an argument, it seemed.  On edge.  Even more so than usual.

            Sharona was confused.  "Why not?"

            Monk sighed, as if she should already know the answer.  "Because the first one we ordered was too small.  They had to squeeze in 'anniversary'.  It ruined the whole cake."

            "You shoulda seen him!  He sent it back!  I've never seen him so mad!" Benjy said cheerfully, pouring a glass of milk.

            Sharona stared at Monk.  "Well, guess what, Adrian?  You're eating some of this."  She started to make her first cut.

            "No, I'm not—"  He broke off, staring in horror at the knife in her hand.  "What are you _doing?" he asked with panic in his voice._

            Sharona glanced up.  "What?  I'm cutting the cake."

            Monk held out a hand to stop her.  "No-o-o, you're mutilating the cake."

            Sharona scowled, lifting the knife from the cake's surface.  "What are you talking about?"

            "If you cut there," Monk pointed, "you're going to have uneven rows after that.  Especially if you cut it crooked, which I wouldn't put past you."

            "What are you talking about?  What difference does it make the way the rows are cut?"

            "Trust me," Monk said with an air of importance, his volume increasing with anger.  "It matters.  I didn't buy you an anniversary cake so you could cut crooked pieces!  Now, try starting the cut about a centimeter back this way."  He held a hand over the cake to demonstrate.

            She held the knife toward him, handle first.  "All right.  You cut it."

            Benjy watched the argument unhappily.

            Monk stepped back and swallowed thickly.  "You know I can't do that, Sharona."

            "Then don't complain about the way I cut my cake!"  Sharona bit her lower lip, then glared at Monk.  "Happy anniversary," she spat derisively.  "Maybe five years is long enough.  Five years of hell!"  She dropped the knife on the counter and stormed out of the kitchen.

             Monk glanced at Benjy, who was staring after his mom with dismay.  "It's okay," he told him, not sounding reassuring even to himself.

            Monk followed Sharona nervously into the living room.  He found her by the window, staring down at the street.  "Sharona!" he began, putting as much desperation into his tone as his dignity allowed.  "Sharona, I'm sorry!  You can cut the cake however you want, okay?"  He spoke to her back, hoping his words alone could turn her around.

            Sharona inhaled shakily and when she answered, her voice came out rough and raw with emotion.  "Yeah, whatever, Adrian."

            Monk hesitated.  He privately cursed himself.  Once again, his ability to interpret human behavior from all sorts of little clues failed when he had to figure out Sharona.  He could never quite tell what she was thinking at times like these.  "Are you mad because I got the cake?"

            A noise that was something between a laugh and a sob came out.  "_No_.  It was very sweet of you.  It's—it's nothing."

            Monk swallowed uncomfortably.  They'd just had this conversation a short time ago.  The first time, he was willing to dismiss it as unimportant.  Now, he was convinced she was holding something back.  But he could never approach sensitive subjects well.  And she obviously didn't want to talk about it.  Yet.  Or with him, maybe.

            He eased in beside her.  She had a worried expression on her face and held her hand over her heart.  She seemed to be holding her breath as if waiting something out.  Sharona was very pointedly avoiding his eyes.

            After waiting a moment, Monk rubbed his hands together briskly.  "Okay!  So you were just having a little tantrum.  I understand."  There was an undercurrent of anger in his tone that he couldn't quite hold back.  He realized it made him sound insensitive, childish, and it only made him feel worse that he couldn't control his tongue better.

            But Sharona didn't even notice.

            "Why don't we get back to that cake before Benjy eats it all, huh?" Monk murmured.

            He waited a few seconds as Sharona composed herself.  When she turned to face him, her eyes challenged him to comment further.  He didn't rise to the challenge.

            "All right," she answered, walking back toward the dining room.  "But you have to eat some."

            "Let's not get carried away!" Monk said loudly, following her.  He was relieved that he'd (somehow) drawn her out of whatever dark corner she'd retreated to.  He was afraid that look in her eyes was the same one he saw in the mirror during his worse periods.

            Benjy saw his mother return with a half-smile on her face and cheered up again.

            Sharona cut the cake as Monk watched anxiously.  He bit his lower lip to avoid protesting.  She placed a piece on a plate for Benjy, then another for Monk.

            "That's okay, Sharona," Monk said, taking a step back.

            Sharona held out the plate.  "Get over here and eat this, or I'm going to shove it in your face!"

            Monk knew that tone.  He obeyed.  He grabbed the fork and carefully lifted a piece of the sloppy cake.  As he held the fork in front of his mouth, building up the nerve to put it in, the phone rang.

            Sharona answered.  Monk could tell by the conversation it was the captain.  They must have another job, he reasoned.  But Sharona didn't sound very happy about it.  She glanced over to Monk with a concerned expression, murmuring into the receiver.  Monk couldn't understand what she was saying, she was speaking so softly.

            "Okay, we'll be there."  She hung up the phone and turned to Monk.  "Adrian, we have to go down to the station," she said in a measured tone.

            Monk shook his head and shrugged.  "That's fine."  He hesitated when he noticed her disturbed expression had not eased.  "Hey, don't worry about the party!  It's no big deal."

            Sharona flashed a pitying look his way.  "Why don't you get in the car?  I'll be down in a sec."

            Monk watched her with hooded eyes as she rushed out of the room.  He noticed her lift a hand to her collar bone for a moment, a movement she made only when she was upset.  Once she'd left, Monk decided to use the opportunity to leave the cake, untasted, on the counter.

            "I'll eat that, Mr. Monk!" Benjy said.

            "No, you won't!" Sharona shouted from the other room.

            Monk turned to Benjy.  "You'd better listen to her.  She's scary when she's mad."

*   *   *

            "So, did he spring it on you yet, Sharona?" Stottlemeyer asked with forced cheerfulness as Sharona and Monk entered his office.  He sounded worn out.

            "What?" she asked, distracted.

            "The party."

            Sharona was bewildered.  "How did _you know about it?"_

            Stottlemeyer stared.  "Are you kidding?  He wouldn't shut his yap about it for days!"

            Sharona glanced at Monk, who looked back innocently, his face very straight.  "How does he know all about this, and I completely missed it?"

            "Maybe because you never pay any attention to me," Monk said, matter-of-fact.

            Sharona was trying to think of a response when Stottlemeyer interrupted.  "Listen, Monk.  I don't think I should keep this from you any longer."

            Monk looked at him expectantly.  The captain's hair was mussed up, and he couldn't meet Monk's eyes.  "What is it?" Monk asked uncertainly.  "Sharona wouldn't tell me anything in the car."

            Stottlemeyer and Sharona exchanged a long, silent look.  Monk, uncharacteristically, noticed that he was being left out of something important.

            Stottlemeyer finally pulled his eyes away from Sharona's and cleared his throat.  "We think we have a lead on Trudy's murder."          


	4. Three: Hard to Handle

**Chapter Three:  Hard to Handle**

            Captain Stottlemeyer and Sharona stared at Monk, waiting for his reaction.

            "What are you talking about?" the subject of their scrutiny asked with suspicion and amazement in his voice.

            Stottlemeyer paused to take a deep breath.  "There was a car bombing this morning, Monk.  Killed one person, probably the owner of the car, who just happens to be a journalist for the _Chronicle_," he sneered this last part, showing how he felt about the coincidence.  "It was set off by the ignition—hooked up to the starter motor."

            "Just like Trudy," Sharona murmured.

            "From what we know so far, the target, the M.O., it all seems to match Trudy's case."

            Monk stared at the captain in shock.

            Stottlemeyer hesitated, then continued.  "We're thinking they're connected.  Maybe they both wrote something about someone, or knew something about someone."  Stottlemeyer was gazing at the lamp on his desk.  After an uncomfortable pause, he added, "I've pulled Trudy's file.  And I want you on this case."

            Monk didn't say anything.

            "Adrian?"  Sharona touched his shoulder worriedly.

            Monk didn't blink.  He didn't breathe.

            Stottlemeyer raised his head to look in the detective's eyes.  "Monk, I only want you on this if you can handle it, okay?  If you can't, I'm gonna have to cut you out.  Do you understand?"

            Monk flinched and jerked his head as if shaking out cobwebs.  "I want this one, Captain."  He said this with such intensity and determination, it almost frightened Sharona.

            A hint of a smile crossed Stottlemeyer's face.  "I thought so."

            Monk quirked one of his uncomfortable "trying to act normal" smiles.  "Okay, so fill me in one the…" he hesitated, then changed his wording, "on the crime."

            Sharona rubbed Monk's lower back comfortingly, trying to catch Stottlemeyer's eye.  She couldn't help but feel protective of her charge.

            "Actually, we don't have a full report in yet.  I haven't even been on the scene," Stottlemeyer admitted, eyeing Monk with as much concern as Sharona showed.

            "Why not?" Monk asked, surprised.

            Stottlemeyer was evasive.  "Well, I wanted to meet you here first—on neutral territory."

            "You didn't think I could handle it," Monk concluded.

            Sharona interrupted, trying to draw Monk's attention away from this fact.  "So, who's out on the scene, then?"

            "Lieutenant Disher is currently heading the investigation."  Stottlemeyer hardened his face in preparation for the backlash he expected from Sharona at mention of Disher's name.

            She was livid.  "You gave this to _Disher_?" she shouted.  Monk cringed at her volume.  "Do you realize how important this case is?" she subtly gestured toward Monk with her eyebrows.  "And you give it to Disher to screw up?"

            Stottlemeyer held firm.  "Randy's a good, solid street cop, Sharona."

            Sharona released an exasperated sigh.  "I don't believe this," she informed the ceiling.

            Monk's eyes flickered back and forth between the two as if he were watching a tennis match.

            Stottlemeyer pressed further.  "The world does not revolve around Adrian Monk."

            Sharona bit back a snappy comeback.  Instead, she turned to Monk.  "Adrian," she began, trying to sound sweet despite the edge in her tone.  "Why don't you go wait in the lobby?"

            Monk looked at Sharona in surprise.  "W-why?" he asked innocently.

            "Adrian," she warned.  "I'll be out in a minute." She sounded like a mother speaking to a stubborn child.

            Monk glanced up at Stottlemeyer, back to Sharona, then obeyed.  They watched him leave the room, shoulders slumped.

            The second the door closed behind Monk, Sharona whirled back to face Stottlemeyer.  "I can't believe this!  _He_ should be out there, solving this crime, not that immature . . . ne'er-do-well!"

            Stottlemeyer jabbed a finger in her face.  "Don't tell me _Disher's_ not mature enough to be a detective—especially after you send Monk out of here like a kid so he won't hear his parents arguing!"

            "I am _not his mother!" Sharona snapped._

            "Yeah, well, you certainly act like it sometimes!"

            Sharona brushed off the comment.  "That's besides the point.  Bottom line:  Disher is a poor replacement."

            Stottlemeyer narrowed his eyes.  "Randy would have made it to lieutenant even if Monk wasn't suspended," he said firmly.  "Don't even try to place the blame on Randy for this."

            Sharona was still angry, her voice oozing sarcasm now.  "I'm sure he would've.  His father would've just paid you off or something, but then he didn't have to, did he?"

            A vein on Stottlemeyer's forehead throbbed with his barely contained anger.  "I hardly _knew his father!  Randy's promotion had absolutely nothing to _do_ with his father!"_

            Sharona turned away, mumbling to herself, "That's not what I heard."

            Stottlemeyer was fuming.  Sharona was the only person who could get away with talking to him that way without dire consequences.  She never backed down in an argument, even when the toughest cop would withdraw.  The captain couldn't understand it; she simply did not fear him.

            He, on the other hand, could not admit that he never feared her.

            And then, as abruptly as she'd brought up the subject, Sharona dropped it.  Casually, as if she didn't realize how infuriated she had made Stottlemeyer, Sharona asked, "So, where's the bomb scene?"

            He glared at her for several moments, weighing whether to let the argument go.  The he sighed, glancing at the door through which Monk had left.  "It's in a parking garage," he relented, "over on the corner of Sutter and Strauss, near the vic's office, apparently."

            Sharona lifted a hand to the doorknob.  She hesitated.  "You know what this is going to do to him," she said to the knob.

            The captain sighed.  "But what if he finally solves it?  After all this time, don't you want to give him a chance at that?"

            Sharona didn't say anything for a moment.  "Do you remember the first thing he said to me when he met me?" she asked over her shoulder.

            "Yeah, he shook your hand and said, 'It's a pleasure,'" Stottlemeyer snapped sarcastically.

            Neither spoke for a moment.  Then he murmured, "I remember."

            Sharona bit her lip and turned around again.  "Look," she began, avoiding Stottlemeyer's eyes.  "I know we've had our problems in the past.  But now, I think we really have to be there for Adrian.  It's going to be hard on all of us."

            "I know," Stottlemeyer said quietly.

            They stood in silence, each lost in their own thoughts.

            Suddenly, Sharona groaned, flipping her hair away from her face with one hand.  "Oh, _God!  This is such a horrible time for this to happen!"_

            "You're telling me," Stottlemeyer grumbled, then looked up at the especially distraught nurse.  "Why?"

            Sharona hesitated.  "Don't tell Adrian," she warned.

            Stottlemeyer shrugged.  "Okay."

            "I mean it!  If you so much as suggest to him—or _anyone—that anything's wrong, I'll kill you!"_

            "Well, that's not legal," Stottlemeyer drawled.  Noting Sharona's serious glare, he held up his hands.  "Okay, okay, I won't tell a soul."

            "This morning, I went to the doctor," she began.

            The captain kept his face straight.  "Don't tell me you're pregnant," he said, deadpan.

            Sharona gaped at him, aghast.

            "All right, sorry!  Go on," he apologized, biting his lip to keep from smiling.

            Sharona ran a hand through her hair nervously.  "I have a heart problem.  My doctor told me I'm under too much stress, and he said I should quit my job, or else I might have a heart attack."  The words came out in a rush, with the relief of revealing a troubling secret.

            Stottlemeyer stared.  "Oh," he said quietly.  He understood the implications.  "Well, what are you going to do?"

            "I don't know!" she cried.

            "And you didn't tell Monk?"

            Sharona's hands flailed around her face.  "No!  I was going to, but then I came home, and he had this party and . . . what could I do?"  Her shoulders slumped and she stared at the floor.  When she spoke again, her voice was weak.  "Now that this has come up, there's no way I can tell him.  He'd already think I was abandoning him—I can't do that to him under these circumstances."

            Stottlemeyer watched her with pity in his eyes.  "Listen, I can take him off your hands sometime if you need me to.  Give you a break, at least."

            Sharona looked up gratefully.  "Thanks."

            Neither of them spoke.

            Then, Sharona sniffled and wiped her eyes.  "I'd better get out there or Adrian will wonder what's going on."

            "Okay," Stottlemeyer said.  As she reached for the door, he hesitated, then blurted, "Sharona—you really mean a lot to him."

            Sharona stopped, her hand hovering above the knob.  She didn't look at the captain.

            "More than you realize," he finished.

            Sharona finally glanced back at him, then slipped out the door.

*   *   *

            She found Monk standing awkwardly by the front desk, watching for her to emerge from Stottlemeyer's office.  The detectives and uniformed officers were steering clear of him, swerving widely around him to avoid contact.  They must have heard about the car bomb.

            Monk looked like a lost little boy, Sharona thought, somehow isolated in the crowded room.  As she approached, he asked in a whining tone, "Where have you been?"

            Sharona didn't answer.  She kept walking out the door, certain that Monk would follow her.

            He did.  "You were talking about me in there, weren't you?" he said with certainty, falling in beside her.

            Sharona glanced at him.  "Why would you think that?" she said ironically.

            "You think I can't handle this, don't you?  Well . . . I can," Monk stated evenly.  Sharona didn't say anything at first, so Monk added, "You don't believe me.  I can handle this.  I'm not the same man I was five years ago."  He had a desperate tone, as if he were trying to convince himself as much as Sharona.

            They stopped outside the car.  Sharona reached into her handbag for her keys.  She paused and looked at him.  "I know you're not.  You don't have to prove anything to me, Adrian."

            Monk paused.  "Do _you think I can handle it?"  He was gazing at her across the roof of the car with the question burning in his eyes.  It was obvious her belief in him was crucial._

            Sharona took a deep breath.  "I think you're much stronger now," she said honestly, and ducked into the car.

            The wave of relief that washed over his face as he eased into his seat indicated more than any words he could have said.  It scared her sometimes how a grown man could rely on her so deeply for support.  At the same time, she resented the power he held over her, the burden his emotional death-grip placed on her shoulders.  She could never leave him voluntarily without risking a major setback in his therapy.  And she knew that would be _her fault, of course, even if it wasn't.  Her life was his life now, like it or not._

            He was stronger, yes, but was he strong enough? Sharona wondered.

            She turned the key and started the car as Monk buckled himself in.

            Adrian Monk, when he was comfortable, which wasn't often, could be a very talkative man.  People rarely believed Sharona when she told them this, because Monk was most comfortable alone with Sharona.  Usually, on the way to a crime scene, or just after they'd left one, she couldn't shut him up as he discussed the first tidbits of information he had in excruciating detail.  He almost looked happy then.  It was obvious to Sharona in those times that Monk was born for detective work.

            Today, however, he stared out the window silently, not even daring to look at Sharona.

            She glanced at him from the corner of her eye occasionally.  No backseat driving, no complaints.  If this happened any other time, she'd be ecstatic.  He looked calm on the surface, but it was nothing like the repose he experienced when he successfully solved a case.  Just below that relaxed exterior, some troubling emotions were brewing.  

Sharona wasn't sure she wanted to dig them up.  So she said nothing.

            _His wife died violently.  He hasn't been able to get over it yet.  Stottlemeyer's voice flashed through her head, a memory from five years ago._

            Her first impression of Adrian Monk came from the label he'd been given:  Adrian Monk, Obsessive-Compulsive.  She'd read about the disorder, encountered patients in nursing school.  It wasn't really a specialty of hers, but she was frantic for work, and she qualified.  Caretaking—she was good with people.

            "I'll warn you, he's a lot more than you could possibly expect," Stottlemeyer told her outside Monk's door.  "He hasn't left his house in over a year."

            _For over a year?_  "Not at all?" she asked, wrinkling her nose in confusion.

            "He came home from the funeral, and that was it.  Couldn't handle it." Stottlemeyer looked haggard as he knocked on the door.  "I'm not expecting anything out of this.  We've already tried about six different nurses.  They couldn't deal with him."

            "Maybe they just weren't as stubborn as I am," Sharona replied lightly.  _Or desperate, she added silently.  She couldn't afford _not_ to accept the kind of money the San Francisco Police Department was offering for this position._

            And then the door opened.

            Adrian Monk already was more than she expected.

            He was dressed as if he were about to step out to work:  brown suit, plaid shirt, buttoned up all the way.  He'd been interrupted just before he put the tie on.  But he apparently wasn't going anywhere anytime soon.

            The look in his eyes told Sharona all she needed to know.  They were dull, dark, vacant pits of despair, as if they'd never known happiness and never would.  _He looks so lost_, Sharona thought.  His eyes were blank as he stared at Stottlemeyer.

            "How ya doin', Monk?" the captain asked with the forced casualness one uses in uncomfortable situations.

            Monk glanced at Sharona briefly with trepidation, then back to Stottlemeyer.

            Sharona was confused.  Stottlemeyer had said the two were friends.  But the captain acted like Monk was practically a stranger.  He'd greeted Sharona more warmly.

            "I've never been better," Monk answered.  "I'm having the time of my life."  He said this so matter-of-fact Sharona couldn't tell if he meant it as a joke.

            Stottlemeyer chuckled shakily anyway.  "That's great.  Monk, I brought you another nurse.  See if you can keep this one a little longer, huh?"

            Monk just stared at the captain.

            Sharona jumped in with sappy cheerfulness.  "Hi, Mr. Monk!  Uh, my name is Sharona Fleming.  I'm going to be your caretaker."  She started to extend a hand to shake, but pulled back when she noticed the way he brought his hands closer to his body, as if protecting himself.  His hands looked red and raw, like he'd been scrubbing them clean far too often.

            _Germ phobia, she thought, reminding herself of a common trait in OCD patients._

            "You don't really want to be here, do you?" Monk said, addressing her for the first time.  "No one spends time with me voluntarily.  Except Trudy."  He paused, as if the mention of his wife's name required a moment of silence.  "But you have a kid to support by yourself, and you really need the money."

            Sharona felt her mouth drop open.

            Stottlemeyer glanced at her nervously and said, "Listen, Monk, how 'bout we come inside and work things out here?"

            Monk looked back at Stottlemeyer and closed the door.

            Sharona stared at the door in disbelief, unable to respond to any of the recent surprises.

            "Told you he'd be a bit much," Stottlemeyer commented dryly.  "He'll be back in a minute."

            "How did he—?" Sharona stammered.

            "I should've warned you.  He notices everything.  Even the stuff that isn't there."

            "I _am a licensed nurse," she insisted anxiously._

            Monk opened the door again, this time wearing a surgical-style face mask.  He tilted his head in a "come on in" gesture that seemed far too casual for the circumstances.

                        Sharona entered first, trying to take in everything without being obvious.  The odor hit her before anything else—the house smelled so strongly of disinfectant, she wondered how Monk could stand it.

            Then Sharona gasped.

            The walls were covered with pictures, all black-and-white, some framed and tastefully displayed, others simply tacked up.  The framed pictures all showed the face of a woman she could assume was his late wife.  But the others…

            From what she could tell, the other pictures showed the same mangle, twisted remains of a car, from every possible angle.

            _His wife died in a car bombing, Sharona realized suddenly._

            "That's my wife, Trudy," Monk said, with the most emotion in his tone she'd heard yet from him.  "She died a little over a year ago."  Monk looked at Stottlemeyer quickly, as if checking his reaction, then added, "I'm still…working on her case."

            She realized she was staring, and tore her eye away from the photographs.

            _Oh, my God, Sharona thought.  __I'm worried more about the money than the patient, and here's a man who really needs help.  And he knew it, too._

            "They keep sending people to take Trudy's place, but no one ever will."

            Sharona swallowed and blinked furiously.  He sounded so pathetic, so filled with sadness.  And yet, Sharona almost caught the feeling that he wanted _some_one there.  _He's lonely.  She didn't know how, but she knew this as well as if he'd said it aloud._

            "I know that," she said gently.  "I'm just here to help you out for a while, okay?"

            Monk nodded.  "I'll give you about six hours."

            Stottlemeyer stifled a snicker.

            "Well, you're the eternal optimist, aren't you?" Sharona retorted, a twinge of annoyance showing, despite previously promising herself she'd be professional.

            Monk blinked.  "I'm not an optimist," he stated.

            Sharona glanced at Stottlemeyer as if to ask, _Is__ he for real?_

            Stottlemeyer raised his eyebrows and shrugged.

Monk grabbed an aerosol can and started spritzing the air near the captain and Sharona's heads.

            "What are you doing?  Knock it off!" Sharona snapped, coughing.

            Monk stopped and stared at Sharona.  The room was completely silent.

            Sharona stared back, irritated, but also certain she'd just blown her chances for the job.

            Just before Sharona turned around to walk out the door, Monk put the aerosol can down and brushed his hands on his pants.

            They all stood still and looked at each other.

            Suddenly, Stottlemeyer looked at his watch and said, "Whoa!  It's been five minutes, pal.  You want us to get outta here now?"

            Monk hesitated, his eyes on Sharona.  His shoulder twitched as he said, "You can stay for a little bit longer."

            Now Stottlemeyer's mouth dropped open.

            Sharona looked back and forth at the two.  "What is it?"

            Stottlemeyer smiled.  "I think we found a match, Ms. Fleming."

*   *   *

            Sharona snapped back into the present as she realized she'd been driving to the crime scene without consciously thinking about it.  It was obvious they'd reached their destination due to the flashing police lights.  The entrance to the parking garage was cordoned off by yellow warning tape.  Uniformed officers, bomb squad, detectives, and federal agents swarmed the scene.  Even from the car, she could see Disher's head bobbing frantically from officer to officer, trying to hold some kind of control over the investigation.

            It looked more than Sharona could handle.  She couldn't imagine how Monk was feeling.  He certainly wasn't giving any clues.  She didn't think he'd spoken since they entered the car.

            Sharona turned the car off and looked over at Monk.  He was slowly rocking in his seat, struggling to control his emotions.  Sharona had to look away for a moment.

            Then she swallowed, the gulp somehow so audible among all the muffled police noises, and said quietly, "We're here."

            But it was still too loud for the silence Monk needed.


End file.
